For anybody who is bed-bound or sofa-bound, or with their time split equally between the two, we're often asked "How are you coping?" Or more specifically: "How are you coping with the boredom?" But honestly, I can't say I’ve ever been bored in all of this. Frustrated yes. But bored, no. The way my brain works, the mere contents of it are constantly entertaining me when it goes down wacky thought paths, or terrifying me when it goes down bad ones. I try my hardest not to go down the worry thought paths, but as you've probably seen in my previous blog posts, I can end up convincing myself I’m getting abducted by aliens, or that I've been given the blood of a sloth when having a transfusion. So no, I'm never bored but WOW- your brain sure gets LOUD when you physically can't move around much to distract it!
My first full day back at home consisted of decorating my crutches with Porsche stickers, enjoying a meditation with no background beeps from a hospital morphine machine, and spending hours just trying to dress and wash myself with a bowl of water and a flannel. If you're able to jump in a shower, wash your own hair and are allowed to get both your legs wet- BE GRATEFUL FOR THAT SHIT MY FRIENDS!!!
There was so much excitement (verging on euphoria) when I sent dad off to the supermarket with his first big 'Sophie Shopping list'. In a couple of hours I'd be surrounded by non hospital food! Sushi, almond butter, golden Kiwis... all the good stuff! Although for poor dad, my list probably resembled something like a task on The Apprentice, when they send them out to source a load of odd things. Everything felt like such a treat or such a novelty. That was, until it was time to do the dreaded anti blood clot injection in my stomach…
Everything in your mind is screaming “NO! Don't do that! Don't STAB yourself! That will hurt!” Yet somehow you do it anyway. Ignoring all common sense or mental reasoning. I really don't know how diabetics or heroin addicts do it. (Not that they're in the same category as each other, of course!)
While I sat there crying in the aftermath as the burning pain spread, dad took the needle out of my hand and safely disposed of it in the sharps bin in my bedroom. That's another thing I never thought I'd have in my bedroom: A bin for used needles.
I was very glad I was single at this point. Between all the disability kit that filled my apartment and the fact I couldn't shave my leg or wash my hair yet, due to still waiting for a bath stool to be fitted- I'd never felt like such a minger in my entire life! That said, this situation seemed to act as a green light for any former dates or randomers to slide into my DMs with the chat up line- “Hey babe, how's the leg?” Or more presumptuously: “You know, if we were still dating it could be me looking after you right now…”
LOL.
I think lockdown taught us all to be careful who you couple up with as you never know when you could find yourself stuck within the same four walls together. Thankfully, a stream of lovely visitors began over the days that followed. Some of my nearest and dearest, some who I'd not seen for ages, and some who were just the guys from Deliveroo, bringing my Lebanese food I'd ordered yet again. All of this helped me so much.
Apart from the utterly SAVAGE Facebook or Instagram memories that would pop up on my phone. Oh look- on this day last year you were cycling over Brooklyn Bridge to get cheesecake from Juniors, then strolling around central park listening to a saxophone player. Or two years prior- in LA, staying in a mansion opposite the iconic Beverly Hills hotel, skipping down the massive driveway to head off for a hike in the Hollywood Hills. Kill me now! I was ready to drown myself in the hummus I'd ordered from Yara.
I'm really glad I couldn't see my future and I think there's a reason that we can't. At the start of 2023 I wouldn't have wanted to know it was the year I'd lose my mum then break my femur. But this works both ways, as we never know what awesome things are coming either. So, hold on. Don't give up hope and keep going through the bad times to get to the good times. Everything will feel so much sweeter when you get to them.
In the meantime, my next dose of excitement came through a day out to hospital of all places…
My local one, for my first follow up appointment. And how was I getting there? Via ambulance of course!! Think of it like an Uber but way more dramatic. I'd been trapped inside for six days straight at this point and I was very excited to see the outside world. So imagine the explosion in my brain when the first person I saw out of the ambulance window was elite influencer and Love Island star Molly Mae, doing a photo shoot with a red postbox on the corner of the road. I'm not even a fan, but to see a real-life influencer in the wild, flaunting the latest PrettyLittleThing trench, reminded me they were still a thing and society goes on, beyond my femur-filled life.
Once arrived at the Trauma and Fracture ward and unstrapped from my stretcher, I got onto my crutches then put in a wheelchair, to be pushed down multiple corridors for X-rays and examinations.
Everyone I went passed looked so terrified, sad or hopeless. Not from seeing me I hope, just the fear of the unknown. So many of them had clearly just suffered their accidents and were obviously in pain or on their way to surgery. I remembered what that was like. I wanted to hug them all and maybe get a megaphone and scream “YOU’RE ALL GOING TO BE OK GUYS!!” Everything is going to be FINE!” As I was pushed down the halls. After a good dose of radiation and being asked if I'm pregnant again, I was put in a cubicle with a lovely nurse who began to unbrace my leg and remove the dressing and stitches from my scar.
Wait! Remove the dressing from my scar??! And de-stitch it?! I'm not sure I'm ready to see this yet! The full extent of it. Stitches and all. I knew it was going to be HUGE and definitely not how I'm manifesting it to look yet… Surely it's too soon? I was wincing and grimacing enough at the dressings being slowly peeled off- plucking out each hair at a time. Then to add to the suspense, the delightful sound of what can only be described as a chainsaw, sawing off someones cast in the next cubicle. Even dad was grimacing now. When I'm nervous or about to have some kind of procedure done to me, whether in the name of beauty or for medical reasons, I start talking a million miles an hour to try and distract myself from what's about to happen. This either involves telling the therapist or nurse what I had for breakfast, asking if they're going on holiday anywhere this year or I'll simply start chanting words of things I like, such as sunsets, beaches in Malibu, Porsches, Ferraris, banana bread, yoga, Brody Jenner and business class flights.
As I felt the first tingling of a stitch being drawn out of my body (it felt like a piece of spaghetti being pulled out of my leg), my dad broke my affirmation chanting with a “Flipping ‘eck Soph, you don't have talk a lot!”
That's the point dad. Distraction! Taking my mind to a happier place!
I tilted my Dodgers baseball cap down to shield my view of these spaghetti stitches being removed.
“Oh it looks good!” Nurse Laura reassured me. “Yes, very neat. They've done a good job!”
I still couldn't bring myself to look. Until they brought out a new bionic looking leg brace for me. It looked cool but also terrifying. This one was hinged and had a massive dial at the side which they dialled up to a 30° flexion. Excuse me?! You're now expecting me to start trying to bend my recently broken leg? Indeed they were. I wasn't sure how I felt about this, or my enormous scar, the meaning of life, or Molly Mae anymore. But one thing's for certain- I wish the person next door with the chainsaw would cut it out!
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